


Operation: Get Treville Laid

by bowyer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowyer/pseuds/bowyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their boss – well, ok, technically Louis is in charge, but everyone (including Louis) knows who really runs the office – is looking tired and stressed all the time now. And not in that ‘I’m-having-shedloads-of-great-sex’ way, either. It’s more of an ‘I’m-working-myself-to-an-early-grave-and-eating-ready-meals’ sort of tired.</p>
<p>Dammit, Porthos hates it when Aramis is right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Set Up.

OPERATION: GET TREVILLE LAID.

 

“We’re not calling it that,” Porthos says flatly, trying to coax the hot water heater into behaving.

 

“Why not?” Aramis says. He wraps an elastic band around the last bundle of light blue envelopes and snaps it in a triumphant manner. “I like it.”

 

“You like _anything_ that makes Treville burst a blood vessel, your taste is…”

 

“Shite,” Athos offers up. “Don’t give Treville a heart attack. Louis can’t claim enough wine for me to do his job.”

 

“Operation… Relaxation?”

 

“Operation _nothing_. Remind me never to allow you to write a headline. Ever. Which, admittedly, is a shame, as this,” Athos motions to the blank piece of paper in front of him, “Is infuriating.”

 

“Free kittens if you vote for Louis!”

 

It’s a good thing that no one else is left in the office, because the pen that was formerly in Athos’ hand goes flying and clatters against the glass wall of the printing room (Aramis is good at ducking). They’ve had a ‘no projectiles’ rule since Aramis threw a stapler at Porthos and accidentally knocked over his cup of coffee. He’d had to buy the office a new barcode reader, and personally dry all of the canvassing sheets he’d ruined.

 

In the kitchenette, the ancient heater makes a grumbling noise. Porthos narrowly restrains himself from whooping with joy (not actively banned, but frowned upon), and starts heaping spoonfuls of coffee into four mismatched mugs.

 

D’Artagnan may have been silent throughout the brief spat, but Porthos is under no illusions about his innocence. He’s only been here a few weeks, and Aramis and he are worryingly close. They’ve got about the same mental age, by which he means ‘that of a five year old.’

 

As if he sensed where Porthos’ mind was going, the envelope stuffing machine that d’Artagnan has been watching closely clatters to a halt. D’Artagnan grabs a handful of the freshly stuffed envelopes and hands them to Aramis, who stops his ‘helpful’ suggestions to start addressing them again.

 

The room falls into silence, interspersed only with the scratching of Aramis’ calligraphy, the gentle hum of the envelope stuffing machine, and the muttered swears of Athos.

 

It is oddly relaxing. Or, as relaxing as working for Louis Bourbon’s constituency team can be.

 

“Coffee,” Porthos places the mug just out of reach of Athos’ head, which is resting on the blank paper. “And maybe take a break? You won’t come up with a good headline if you’re panicking.”

 

“Not panicking,” Athos looks up. “How does ‘you can trust the quiet man’ sound?”

 

Porthos wrinkles his nose.

 

“You’re right,” his friend cups his hands around the mug of coffee and nods in thanks. “I’ll have a think about it.”

 

“Louis also… _isn’t_ quiet. ‘You can trust the squeaky man’ doesn’t work so well.” Porthos continues on his coffee round, and then takes the seat opposite from Aramis to liberate him of some of the pile of envelopes. His handwriting isn’t a patch on Aramis’, but at least (unlike some people) it’s actually legible.

 

Athos huffs and knocks back half of his coffee in one gulp, before pushing the blank paper out of the way with a snort of derision. He gestures towards d’Artagnan, who’s rescuing another pile of envelopes from the machine, and receives said pile as his reward. With the three of them on addressing duty, it should go much quicker.

 

They’re almost done with the pile (d’Artagnan is on ‘move things to other places’ duty, since his handwriting is appalling) when they hear footsteps up the path.

 

“This job would be much easier if I didn’t have to answer _questions_ ,” Louis huffs, holding open the door for Anne. “Or at least, not stupid questions.”

 

“That’s… part of the job,” his wife says with a straight face, her education portfolio under her arm.

 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose, and Porthos is reminded of their prior conversation. Their boss – well, ok, _technically_ Louis is in charge, but everyone (including Louis) knows who really runs the office – is looking tired and stressed all the time now. And not in that ‘I’m-having-shedloads-of-great-sex’ way, either. It’s more of an ‘I’m-working-myself-to-an-early-grave-and-eating-ready-meals’ sort of tired.

 

Dammit, Porthos _hates_ it when Aramis is right.

 

“There’s wine in the fridge,” Treville says. “Assuming Athos hasn’t drunk it all.”

 

His second-in-command doesn’t look up from the envelopes he’s addressing, but he raises his middle finger.

 

“I could kiss you, Treville!” Louis collapses onto the battered old sofa of their office with his typical dramatic air. Well, they always say that politics is acting for ugly people, Porthos supposes. Not that Louis is ugly – he’s a damn sight more attractive than most of the politicians Porthos comes across in his day to day life, but that’s… a rather small sample pool.

 

He’s so caught up in his mental gymnastics that he almost misses the look that passes between Aramis and d’Artagnan.

 

Oh _no._

 

\---

 

“I’m telling you,” d’Artagnan says through a mouthful of peanuts, after having to show his ID to three separate bartenders. “You didn’t see the look Treville gave him.” He swallows noisily and slurps at his beer.

 

Porthos slaps the back of his head, “I grew up in foster homes and I’ve got better manners than you. And anyway, how do we know Treville likes men? Or – or anyone? There _are_ people who don’t like anyone, it’s not _just_ an excuse to get Aramis to leave them alone.”

 

“Today’s ‘let’s sort out our boss’ sex life’, _not_ ‘let’s pick on Aramis day,’” Aramis retorts, leaning back in his chair until his head touches the wooden wall of the pub.

 

“He likes people,” Athos says casually, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Or – men, at least.”

 

All three of them turn as one to stare at him.

 

“What?”

 

“And you know this… how?” Aramis scoots forward. His chair makes a horrible squeaking sound as it drags across the wooden floor, and Porthos shudders.

 

Athos’ eyes dart around the room, as though he’s suddenly realised he’s cornered by a wild Aramis. With another terrible scraping sound, d’Artagnan drags his chair to block off Athos’ other exit route. Short of disappearing under the table – which Athos _has_ done before, but he’s not drunk enough to start that yet – he is well and truly trapped.

 

“I slept with him,” Athos says to his bottle of wine.

 

“ _When?_ ”

 

“After the by-election in August. Now,” he continues on without pausing for breath, “If we could –”

 

“Was he any good?”

 

“ _Aramis!_ ” Porthos admonishes his friend, whilst d’Artagnan chokes on his beer and Athos attempts to drown himself in wine Duke of Clarence style. Judging by the sly grin on Aramis’ face, the telling-off is pretty futile.

 

“Well, was he?” Aramis scoots forward again, until he’s almost in Athos’ lap. “Because this is vital information.”

 

Athos surveys him over the top of his wine glass, but remains tight-lipped. Figuratively, of course, he’s still chugging back that wine like he’s a dehydrated man drinking water.

 

It takes a good three minutes of awkward silence before Aramis realises that he’s absolutely definitely _not_ going to get an answer from Athos. He pouts rather heavily at the wooden ceiling, as though that’ll change anyone’s mind.

 

"Alright," Porthos sighs, when the atmosphere has got  _truly_ uncomfortable. He takes a mouthful of his ale as he thinks. "Well, why don't you sleep with him? Again?"

 

Athos looks murderous, "Because I don't  _do_ relationships, that's why."

 

"Because you're a sociopath!" D'Artagnan claps him on the back cheerily.

 

"Get your hand off me or I'll remove it."

 

"Y'know, that's  _really_ not helping your case," Aramis snickers, still uncomfortably close to Athos, as if he's hoping that he can absorb information about Treville's sex life via osmosis. "It's a shame you don't, you two could get married and have little grumpy babies."

 

Porthos has only seen Athos show paternal feelings to his cat, a ginger hellbeast who pretends to be all cute and cuddly and then claws at Porthos' shins when no one is looking. He's not wholly sure that Athos  _can_ have affection for anything that doesn't have four legs and rabies.

 

“It _is_ a shame,” Athos agrees. “I’d look wonderful barefoot and pregnant.”

 

D’Artagnan chokes on his mouthful of piss-weak beer, spraying it all over the table in surprise. Being as Athos is still penned in by d’Artagnan and Aramis – double trouble, the terrible twosome, the demon children, Porthos needs to come up with a good shorthand for them – he bears the brunt of d’Artagnan’s sudden spit-take. He turns to look at d’Artagnan with the disgusted, haughty look that only Athos can pull off.

 

Porthos sighs. Why does politics attract such  _weirdoes?_

 

“Next time, don’t say something like that when I’ve got a fucking drink!” d’Artagnan protests, cupping his hands around the mostly empty bottle as though Athos might be tempted to throw it. Which, actually… Porthos wouldn’t put it past him. “Um – anyway! Back on track. Isn't the whole... marriage thing, a bit of a problem? With Louis, I mean?"

 

"Open relationship," Aramis says immediately, finishing off his beer and jumping to his feet to get a new pint.

 

"You better bloody  _hope so_ ," Athos mutters.

 

"Aramis slept with Anne," Porthos explains to a confused looking d'Artagnan. "Because apparently we like keeping it in the family here. But, yeah. We don't actually know if  _Louis_ knows it's an open relationship. Or if he likes men, actually. We're all still reeling from the fact he knows what sex is."

 

"Right then," Aramis sets three pints and a fresh bottle of wine on the table. He sits down and pulls out his phone. "Do we have an action plan?"

 

"We need an  _action plan?_ "

 

"My dear, we're politicians. We have an action plan for  _everything._ "


	2. STEP ONE: ASCERTAIN THAT ALL PARTIES CONSENT. WITHOUT TELLING THEM, BECAUSE WHERE’S THE FUN IN THAT?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step one: ascertain that all parties consent. Without telling them, because where’s the fun in that?

"No!" d'Artagnan shouts over the top of the rumblings of the riso.

 

"If you've broken her again..." Treville looks up from his computer.

 

"No no no no – I – it's –  _she's_ fine. Nothing to worry about!" the intern pats the rumbling machine with an uneasy grin. Porthos has a  _feeling_ that the real reason for d'Artagnan's sudden outburst is the giggling artworker in the corner. Aramis catches Porthos' eye and clicks the barcode scanner like a gun.

 

"I'm telling you," he then says. "One hundred percent true. Ask Anne."

 

Anne, who is steps behind Aramis on a laptop, sorting out casework. Porthos isn't going to tell them, though. It's more fun to watch Aramis put his foot in it. Doesn't happen nearly often enough.

 

It's been two weeks since the formation of ‘Operation: Get Treville Laid,’ and they are no closer to achieving even the first point on their action plan. How  _does_ one enquire about a possible open marriage... without sounding like they're propositioning said… participant?

 

Plus, it's Louis. He's eternally oblivious.

 

They're (and by this, Porthos means him and Athos,  _not_ the terrible twosome) also no closer to finding out if Treville actually  _is_ interested in Louis. He's noticed, however, that Athos has started spending a lot more time with him – although, admittedly, this could be because Athos' job is to follow Treville around. Details.

 

"Have you finished?" Speak of the devil. Treville moves  _quietly._ "I have more for you, if you have.”

 

"I – no. Not yet. Almost!" Porthos clutches his pile of surveys closer. "I'll – get it done. Yes."

 

Instead of going to creep someone else out, Treville sits down next to him and pulls his laptop across. No pressure then.

 

He ducks his head down and goes back to entering the details of a Mrs Smith, of Green Lane. Mrs Smith wants the park opposite her closed down because children are too noisy and upset her cat.

 

Everything upsets cats though. Maybe she should just get rid of the cat.

 

“I don’t believe you,” d’Artagnan’s voice carries over Roger-the-Printer’s (who, inexplicably, is still a _she_ ) rumbling. “You’re having me on.”

 

“Aramis is acting… stranger than usual,” Treville uses Roger’s rumbling to mask his voice. “Should I be worried?”

 

“He’s…” _bored with designing templates and using that boredom to play matchmaker fairy_. “Not going to pull a Richelieu, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

A twitch passes across Treville’s face. “Well, I wasn’t _before_.”

 

“Relax,” Porthos pats his shoulder. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about Aramis. Athos would kick his arse if he tried anything – which he’s _not_. Leave Aramis to us.”

 

“Hardly more encouraging.”

 

“Just focus on making sure Louis doesn’t fall in a pothole or get eaten by school children. Leave Aramis to us – and Constance. She’d have his _head_ if we had to start hiring again. And, no offence, but she’s easily the most terrifying person in the office.”

 

Treville _hmms_ to himself and says nothing. Porthos can’t see what he’s doing – something terribly complicated with the electoral register, probably – so he goes back to his own work. For all of three seconds, before Aramis decides he’s done traumatising d’Artagnan with tales of Louis’ latent metalheadness and it’s time to bug people who are _actually working_.

 

 

Oh _no._

Aramis has _that look_ in his eye.

 

“Afternoon, gents,” he greets them, perching on Porthos’ desk and shimmying the keyboard from under his arse. “And how are you both, this fine day?”

 

“No, you’re not adding a music taste option to our canvassing sheets,” Treville says without looking up.

 

“I’ll wear you down. But ‘this house smells of weed’ is definitely a category worth adding. For future reference.”

 

He’s got a point there. Porthos once got waylaid by a stoner for half an hour trying to explain why he had to pay council tax. He had to be rescued by Athos, who nearly pushed him into the river.

 

“Anyway. _Anyway_. I came over here with a proposition. A non-computer related proposition. A _social_ proposition.”

 

 _Don’t say orgy don’t say orgy don’t say_ –

 

“I think we should have an office trip. To Cock-Au-Vin!”

 

Porthos nearly drops his scanner. “We’re not taking d’Artagnan to a _gay bar_ , he’ll be eaten alive!”

 

Aramis’ left eye twitches, and it takes Porthos a good five seconds to realise that it’s not a sudden influx of hay fever, he’s trying to wink.

 

“The Grumpy Cat can look after the twink. All of us can go –Anne and _Louis_ et al.”

 

Treville’s eyes snap into focus at the mention of Louis, his lips thinning.

 

“Where can I go?” Louis, of course, chooses this moment to appear in the office, dumping a pile of canvass sheets in front of Athos. He may be eternally oblivious, but his sense of timing is unparalleled. “What’s happening?”

 

“The Cock, this weekend. You up for it?”

 

“I…” Interestingly, Louis looks at both Anne and Treville for guidance.

 

Anne shrugs, on the phone to some governor or someone about an LEA issue.

 

“I… would not advise it,” Treville says, after a pause. “It might draw… unwelcome attention to your personal life.”

 

Porthos’ phone, in his trouser pocket, buzzes. He pulls it out to see it’s a text from Aramis. _By which, he means: two drinks and L is anyone’s._

 

“Being MP is so _boring_!” Louis gives an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back. “I suppose you’re right. Of _course_ you are. I hate it when you’re right, you know?”

 

“I know how you feel,” Porthos pats his hand. “Try living with Athos.”

 

\---

 

“You’re looking lovely today, have you done something to your hair? New earrings?” Aramis swings himself onto the edge of Constance’s desk. “That colour really brings out –”

 

“I hope you’re not trying to teach d’Artagnan to flirt,” she says without looking up. “Because you’re awful at it. What do you _want_?”

 

“I need use of your… sources,” he rubs his beard in a mysterious air.

 

“By which you mean… my girlfriend? No.”

 

Porthos snorts to himself and shakes his head. Aramis may be able to charm _most_ people out of their underwear, but Constance remains the exception that proves the rule.

 

It would be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

 

“Either that, or your womanly…” Aramis trails off at the look on Constance’s face. “I’m going to go… check the printer’s printing,” he squeaks.

 

“If he wasn’t so charming,” Constance says with a sigh, as Aramis barricades himself in the glass walled printing room. “He’d be responsible for about ninety percent of the sexual harassment cases I _would_ be dealing with.”

 

“He’s hunting out _love_ ,” Porthos defends his friend weakly.

 

“Here? I always knew he had shite taste.” Constance arches an eyebrow before picking up one of the office mobiles (bought at Tescos for about £10, they’re the _bane_ of Porthos’ life because they have tiny buttons made for mice and women’s hands, not his manly man-hands) and turning her back on him. “Hiya, Therese. Yep, it’s that time of the year!”

 

Porthos looks up just in time to see Aramis’ face vacate the glass it’s been pressing itself against.

 

“We might… actually… need your help,” he says reluctantly.

 

Constance’s response is to flip him off with two fingers, gesturing towards the phone.

 

Oh, right.

 

 

Oh well, it’s only Therese.

 

Across the room, Roger clatters to a halt. Athos wanders over, half a rich tea biscuit poking out of his mouth, and picks up the print outs. He dumps them on the desk. The biscuit makes a leap for freedom, landing on the letters, and he picks it up, eyes sweeping across the words as he brushes crumbs off.

 

Suddenly, Athos freezes.

 

He makes a sound not unlike a whimper, and his head falls on the desk.

 

“…Athos?” Aramis opens the door to the printing room carefully, as if he’s scared Constance is going to start throwing things at him. “Everything… ok?”

 

“No imprint,” Athos moans, his voice muffled by the pile of leaflets he’s currently faceplanting on. “We’ll have to scrap the whole thing.”

 

Constance and Porthos wince as one. They’ve already had to recycle one bunch for a typo, so by now they’re probably killed about half of the Amazon rainforest, not to mention they’re ridiculously behind schedule because it’s an election and these things never work out as they’re supposed to. Now they have to stop Athos’ brain from exploding out of sheer desperation.

 

“Right,” Aramis rolls up his sleeves. “Half an hour break. I’ll give d’Artagnan a call. Have a drink, get some food – and I mean _you_ Athos, I will lock you in the kitchen if I have to – and then we’ll start again. With extra hands, we’ll get it sorted in no time.” He pats Athos on the back of his head and manoeuvres the leaflets out from under his face.

 

“I’ll call Fleur,” Constance says. Porthos heads to the kitchen to beat the hot water heater into submission, and reaches into the cupboard under the sink to get one of their numerous whisky bottles. It’s bourbon, because Louis appreciates both alcohol and anything with his name on.

 

He makes up a tray of coffees, liberally spiked with whisky (there’s a brief moment when he tries to remember if d’Artagnan’s old enough, but then he remembers the ID-and-three-bartenders debacle from the other week, so yes) and tucks the bottle under his arm. It’s one of those nights.

 

It’s a good thing he did, because the coffee is inhaled as soon as it’s at a ‘scalding’ temperature, rather than ‘volcanic’, and Athos is cradling the whisky like it’s his feline hell beast.

 

Fleur lets herself into the office with d’Artagnan by her side – she’d offered to give him a lift – and the two head straight to the kitchen for more coffee.

 

“So,” Constance kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet under her thighs. “What did you need my help in, then?”

 

The four of them share a glance. Well, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan share a glance. Athos barely flicks his eyes up.

 

“We… need to…” Porthos tries to figure out how to phase this _delicately_.

 

“Treville needs to be fucked like… yesterday, and he keeps undressing Louis with his eyes, and they don’t believe me when I say Louis and Anne are in an open marriage,” Aramis says flatly.

 

There is a pause, interrupted only by Porthos slapping his forehead so hard he thinks he might have bruised himself.

 

“He’s got a point,” Fleur says through a biscuit.

 

“Remind me to remind Treville never to put you up for election,” Constance looks mildly disgusted, but her interest also seems… piqued. Which is good, because she’s the sort of person who knows how to bury a body and Porthos is going to _murder_ Aramis.

 

Athos takes to his feet with a groan, stretching out. “Back to work,” he orders, tramping back to the machine to reprint the leaflets. Again.

 

“Slave driver,” Aramis mutters, but there’s no real heat to his words. He kickstarts Roger back into gear.

 

If they’re lucky, they’ll be out by three.

 

\---

 

“Alright,” Anne corners him in the kitchen. Porthos hasn’t had nearly enough coffee to construct a sentence yet, and just stares at her blearily, hugging his mug to him like he’s a dragon guarding a hoard. “You’re all acting… strange.”

 

Outside the kitchen, d’Artagnan whoops loudly and waggles his hips in front of the folding machine.

 

“Stranger than usual,” she amends.

 

“’M not sure there _is_ a usual,” he tries to shuffle past her, but Anne holds her ground.

 

“The whole office has noticed you four conspiring. Well, minus Louis.” She sidesteps at the same time as Porthos, looking up at him with a face that’s both innocent and _I will cut you into a thousand pieces_ at the same time. “I’d expect it from you lot, but Athos…?”

 

“In his defence,” Porthos says, trying not to spill his coffee over her shoulder, because ‘injuring your council candidate’ is never a good campaign strategy, “Athos didn’t want to be involved.”

 

“Hmm,” Anne’s eyes light up.

 

Oh shite.

 

_Note to self: get lying lessons before ever attempting to get elected._

“We’re not – nothing,” Porthos says lamely. “Nothing’s going on.”

 

Anne raises an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unimpressed and unconvinced. But she doesn’t push, which is good. Very good. Porthos hasn’t had enough coffee to withstand torture.

 

He thinks he’s won for all of five minutes, as he watches Anne leave the kitchen and walk over to Constance. He thinks he’s won until she leans down and asks Constance something, and Constance responds in an undertone with a shrug.

 

Anne’s head rises slowly, and she gives Porthos an assessing look.

 

“Louis,” she says, her voice carrying through the small office. “I think I might go out tonight.”

 

“Ok,” Louis looks up, wide-eyed. “Do you want me to change the bedding in the spare room? Ooo! Is it Ninon? I haven’t seen her in _ages_.”

 

Anne pats Porthos on the shoulder as he heads to his laptop.

 

Well. Matchmaking is _basically_ team-building, right?

 

\---


End file.
